The Donati Prince
Calisto watched as Cross’s dark curls bobbed up and down, in and out of his father’s sight from the other side of the desk. The two year old toddler had strewn cars, trucks, and trains from one end of his father’s office, to the other. Calisto should have been focusing on the documents that he had yet to go through on a business he was considering buying, but Cross’s fun and noise was keeping him distracted.
Not that Calisto minded, really.
His son—although his nephew to the outside world—was his pride.
His very greatest pride.
And the boy was only two.
Calisto could only imagine what Cross would be like as a young man. So for now, he did his very best to keep Cross close, to give him time, affection, and love that he would remember long after his younger years were forgotten.
Time, love, and affection that was so unlike what he had been given growing up under the man who had meant to be his father-figure. As a boy, he remembered being adored by Affonso, sure, but now it was tainted with all the lies, secrets, and manipulations to go along with it.
Calisto didn’t want that to be him and Cross in twenty or so years, when his boy looked back on his life with the man who raised him.
“Vroom, vroom, vroom, vroom!” Cross screeched, chasing a self-propelled car with one he was pushing. Then, the toys, and the toddler, crashed into the far wall. “Boom.”
Cross had mumbled the word at the same time he crashed into the wall. Calisto had all he could do to hold back the laughter.
He briefly wondered if Cross had hurt himself, but it didn’t last long. Cross groaned before rolling over, grabbing his cars, and beginning the game all over again. Perfectly safe, entirely unscathed.
As usual.
Calisto tried not to coddle his son too much. It was a sad fact of their life, but when his boy was older, no one would be watching Cross’s back, or standing him up on his own two feet when he crashed and burned. Cross, like Calisto, would have to eventually learn over time to do those things on his own.
So as much as he struggled and wavered, and as much as it sometimes killed him to see the tears well in Cross’s eyes every time he fell, missed a step, or if he got a little out of hand when he played, Calisto stayed back.
As long as there was no blood, no broken bones, and no visible bumps, Calisto let Cross learn to self-soothe and self-care.
It was not a boys will be boys sort of mentality, either.
For Calisto, it was more of a this boy needs to learn that he can handle things, and fix them, on his own.
Sometimes, Calisto failed, too.
Sometimes, he simply reacted to the sudden cries of his two year old son, only to find the boy had jammed his finger trying to sneak a cookie. Or even when Cross was pissed because his mother’s dog had stolen his toy.
But he thought, even in those moments, Cross knew exactly what he was doing. He would look to Calisto with the knowing smile and genuine joy only a toddler could have. He imagined in those moments, that Cross was thinking, See, Papa, I knew you would come.
Sometimes, it only took the right cry.
Sometimes, a louder than normal bang.
Sometimes, it was just Cross’s babyish, boyish giggles and his voice calling, “Da!”
Calisto would run.
Cross would be waiting.
“Da,” came the child-like voice at his feet.
Calisto broke from his daze to see Cross sitting on the floor, holding up a car for him to take. It was red, with a bright yellow racing stripe.
Cross’s favorite car.
“Da,” Cross said again, offering the toy still. “Play, Da.”
Calisto thought to correct his son about calling him his father, as he usually did when others were around. Though he had legally adopted Cross, everyone else knew him as the boy’s uncle, and it was safer that way. He often corrected the boy to say Zio, and not the Da or Papa that Cross preferred to use.
That killed Calisto, too.
But no one was there, no one who would care, anyway.
Calisto corrected nothing.
He preferred Da or Papa, too.
“Play?” Cross asked again. “Please, Da.”
He had work to do.
It was well past seven, and his son’s bedtime.
Calisto didn’t care.
He got down on the office floor, and played with his son until Cross crawled into his lap, his car in hand, and fell asleep.
These were the moments that he hoped Cross remembered the most.
These ones right here.
Calisto didn’t realize how long he had stayed like that, holding his sleeping son on the floor, until his wife arrived home and was standing in the office doorway. Emma didn’t go out with friends very often, so when she did, Calisto said nothing about it, simply let her go and have her bit of fun.
She was the love of his life.
The very best mother, too.
“Why didn’t you put him to bed?” she asked.
Calisto shrugged. “Because.”
“Because why?”
“Because someday, he’ll be older, Emmy. He won’t want to play on the floor, and he certainly won’t want to play with me.”
Because that’s what happened when little princes grew up to be kings.